


Sunday Morning

by Abyssiniana



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Married Life, Shiro freaks out over nothing, first days of married routine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 03:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20828990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssiniana/pseuds/Abyssiniana
Summary: “Mornin’,” Keith, once Kogane, now Shirogane, mumbled without opening his eyes, nuzzling closer to the other man with the hidden intent to go right back to sleep.“Good morning, husband. Happy one day married.” That earned him a noise that must have been a chuckle if it weren’t muffled by the pillow. Shiro lifted his hand to tame Keith’s onyx coloured hair, to no avail; the strands were as wild as Keith himself, tangled between his fingertips.“Happy one day. You regretting it yet?”“Not a chance,” Shiro smirked, ducking his head so that he could playfully nibble on the curve of Keith’s neck. “You’re stuck with me for a little eternity, remember?”“Oh no.”“Oh yes.”___Piece I wrote for the Intertwined Sheith Zine.





	Sunday Morning

Waking up a few hours before the alarm with sweat glueing his skin to the sheets wasn’t something out of the ordinary for Takashi Shirogane.

He would gasp and pull himself up to a sitting position, chest heaving, tears burning through his wide titanium-coloured eyes that saw nothing but flashes of the accident. He would go blind, time and time again, until his vision focused in a dark bedroom deprived of any customization beyond pieces of clothing here and there, only to realize the sun hadn’t bled into the horizon just yet. Even with nothing but a thin sheet covering him, he would feel weighed on by layers of concrete. Before he could give his mind a chance to ground itself in the palpable reality before him and not the lingering discomfort of augmented memories in the form of demonic nightmares, he would violently kick the sheet away and get up, pace across the bedroom in a desperate attempt to calm down.

It never worked; not until he put on his running gear and headed out. There was no itinerary in mind, but Shiro would run across parks and streets, until the spikes of his heavy breathing caused by anxiety would gradually shift into exhausted huffs, his heart rate returning to a rhythm that could be excused by physical exercise rather than panic.

He wouldn’t come home before seven, calves sparking with fatigue. His eyelids would be falling closed as he kicked his running shoes off and he would flop down in bed, shower delayed on his list of priorities in favour of catching up on the lost hours of sleep for the remaining time he had until the alarm set on his phone rang.

At nine, he would spring from the mattress and take a quick shower before work, dark circles practically tattooed on his face for the rest of the day. Takashi Shirogane would walk with aching legs and sore muscles to the Galaxy Garrison and pretend nothing had happened, under the false pretence that if he didn’t, then he had no place in his temporary position as a flight instructor.

Back then, Shiro would believe he had died along with the sudden loss of his arm.

But one day, Shiro woke up without the cacophony of a previously set alarm. There was a breeze just barely brushing past him, the window half-opened because no one was reminded to close it the night before. The only weight on his bare body was the warmth of his husband’s arm over his back, breath on his shoulder, Keith’s mess of a bed hair tickling him under the chin. The white sheet that covered them both was but a ghost, made transparent by a lazy Sunday sun that flared through the partially open blinds.

What differed that morning from any other before the wedding was that he didn’t wake up alone.

“Mornin’,” Keith, once Kogane, now  _ Shirogane _ , mumbled without opening his eyes, nuzzling closer to the other man with the hidden intent to go right back to sleep.

“Good morning, husband. Happy one day married.” That earned him a noise that must have been a chuckle if it weren’t muffled by the pillow. Shiro lifted his hand to tame Keith’s onyx coloured hair, to no avail; the strands were as wild as Keith himself, tangled between his fingertips.

“Happy one day. You regretting it yet?”

“Not a chance,” Shiro smirked, ducking his head so that he could playfully nibble on the curve of Keith’s neck. “You’re stuck with me for a little eternity, remember?”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” Shiro blew a raspberry on the same spot, arm curling and locking around Keith’s bare torso. They laughed and tangled their legs in a way that couldn’t be comfortable for anyone else.

The nightmares which had been regular for so long had subdued into occasion. While they hadn’t completely disappeared, whenever he had them, he would look to his side and see him. The ups and downs of Keith’s chest would be a grounding exercise, Shiro would try to keep up to him and mimic his breaths, his flesh fingers would seek under sheets and blankets to meet his husband’s knowing for sure that they would encircle around his hand, as if they had been made to be permanently linked. The bands around their ring fingers suggested so, a lifelong reminder that no bad dream or poorly idealized reality would pull them apart.

#

Shiro groaned and shielded his eyes from the midday rays of sun with his arm, his flesh arm, since the fake one had to be detached from his body every night (it was always cold, or it hurt, some details of the carbon fiber would cut or poke at his side and remind him that it wasn’t as real as the one he had been born with) until his mind fully computed that it was time to get up.

He could hear cutlery being set on the table, juice being squeezed, coffee grinding. For their first week of marriage, they prepared breakfast together, so it felt only a little treacherous to find Keith doing it on his own. It was unrealistic to hope to share those minutes of every single day of the rest of their lives — there would be times when Shiro would have to get up earlier, and same with Keith — but it had become special.

He rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom on autopilot with the thought that, after the honeymoon, came the hardest part of a marriage; at least according to some article Shiro had come across in a magazine one time.

The woman who wrote the article, Shiro assumed, was married for long enough —or perhaps several times to different men— to know what she was talking about. Something about the dreadfulness of reality settling in after what she called “the honeymoon phase”.

That phase, he had learned, referred to an initial period in the relationship where everything came with a dose of blurry corners and glittery eyes, gleaming skin and happy smiles, a magic filter of adoration over every single thing the other does, where time spent alone is torture, and every hour spent together a blessing. The couple agrees on everything, discussions are easily avoidable, and sex is great.

_ Really _ great.

But such as it turns out, the bliss is limited.

After using the bathroom, he walked to the kitchen, leaning his side against the wooden door frame, eyes scanning the area. Keith's attention was divided between the pancakes on the pan, the milk in the microwave and the coffee in the machine.

Weeks had passed since their private little honeymoon night, but the passion burned every time their eyes met, the tease forcing Shiro to press Keith against the wall of empty hallways at the Garrison whenever they crossed paths for a kiss that should have been held to be delivered later but neither of them ever bothered to; “later” would always be too late, because “later” there would be other things to do.

Any day now though, he supposed, their relationship would fall onto banality. The “disillusionment” or “make-or-break phase”.

Shiro’s experience when it came to matters of heart wasn’t too vast beyond a few hook-ups and that one almost-engagement with Adam, but for all of those, the sparks extinguished out of the blue, before he could notice. The thrill of dating quickly suppressed into the obligations of life, into the guarantee that he would have to annul himself in favor of the other person and vice-versa; that had been the reasoning behind most of his breakups in the past. Settling down came attached to a bunch of other things he wasn’t mentally prepared for.

With Keith, however, it had felt like the right thing to do, for once. Not an obligation, not a desperate attempt to hold on to whatever security they brought to each other. The ring around his finger was only an important piece of jewelry because of the meaning behind the symbol, something that even without the golden band was raw and palpable whenever he locked eyes with his husband. Their union was strong and dedicated and as pure and natural as it came.

Shiro knew it was different, but deep down he knew that it had felt some variation of “different” before as well.

That was… scary. Daunting, even. Shiro and Keith’s relationship was never something carved out of an ordinary desert rock, there was divine intervention, traced destiny, and stars conspiring to make them what they have become together. The motions of the universe colluded with the intent of pushing them into each other’s path, as many times as it took until they got the hint.

If they never followed the archetypical model of regular dating and falling in love, why should their marriage be any different?

Keith wore a pair of sweats and a T-shirt that didn't belong to him, but looked better on him than on Shiro anyway. He looked so good, flipping pancakes like his dad had taught him. Walking to the table felt similar to crossing a minefield, bare feet on linoleum tile.

How long until the comfort fully set between them and Keith realized he had made a mistake? What if they grow tired, regretful, resentful? When the cortisol and dopamine faded, what was left of them?

“Hey,” Keith said upon noticing the presence of his husband. Just “hey”. Okay. Shiro nodded, walking to the bay window seat he had wordlessly claimed as his spot during the meals they had there, only to see it taken over by Kosmo, all spread across the seat, belly up and paws in the air, like he owned it.

"Come on, buddy. We talked about this."

With a mellow whine, the dog lazily abandoned the sofa in favor of a less comfortable spot on the floor, muzzle resting over large paws.

“You could have sat on the chair instead.” Keith urged from the stove. “He was there before you.”

With a huff and what could be considered a pout, Shiro sat in his rightful spot, crossing his leg under him and pulling one of the plates closer to himself. Now the dog had priority over the spot?

Why were they having breakfast anyway? This concept of  _ brunch _ was so weird. Waking up late doesn’t excuse the delaying of meals; noon was the time for lunch, lest they’d be having that meal around four in the afternoon, which would postpone dinner to a ridiculous hour. They ought to simply skip it rather than insisting on toasts and coffee.

Shiro wasn’t even that hungry, truth be told, but it just… irked him for some reason. He brought the toast to his mouth, teeth sinking into hard bread with a little reluctance, working their way around his mouth.

Would an overdone and overly buttered toast be the downfall of their relationship?

“You have something on your mind,” Keith stated, turning from the counter to serve himself some coffee, tone a little too serious because that wasn’t a question. An observation, maybe. An accusation? No, no— just a simple statement. Shiro blinked the overthinking away.  _ Deep breath. _

The pouring noise of an excessively long and thin string of coffee was particularly triggering once it hit the ceramic of the mug, for no reason at all but for every possible reason at once.

_ Deep breath. _ Again.  _ What are you thinking, Takashi? _

Keith would always leave a tuft of hair on the tub drain after showering, he would always prefer his bread slightly burned instead of lightly toasted, he'd always choose butter over jam and coffee over tea, and he would very likely prefer to handle all the plumbing instead of calling someone who actually knew what they were doing. He would try, but he would never get the washing machine setting or the ratio of detergent to fabric softener right when doing laundry, or remember to not use window cleaner to wipe the dust on wooden surfaces.

Keith was the type of man who would get into a fistfight over a video game, but he was also the man who would break noses and twist arms if anyone would dare to disrespect his husband. He would always leave food out for stray cats, even if that meant they'd wake up to a chorus of meowing animals at their doorstep they wouldn't unfortunately be allowed to keep. He would buy the wrong brand of shampoo and still refuse the pressing need to take a grocery list with him. 

There would be so much Shiro would hate, but mostly, that man was the one who would wake up next to him everyday, in the same spot he fell asleep on after laughing himself to exhaustion over some dumb videos on Youtube, the tucked nook of his flesh arm like he had always been meant to fit there. He would be there whenever there was a nightmare, whenever they had to withstand a bad day, a bad night, a panic attack. They would exchange looks during birthday dinners over at their friends’ house, secretly wanting to ditch the party. Keith would always have terrible taste in music (and Shiro would always argue about the unquestionable superiority of Jimmy Buffet), but they would always sing horrible middle-ground songs together, out of tune and out of sync, but so into it nonetheless.

Keith was so much and too much all at once, but he would never have enough of him. His man. His _ husband _ , Shiro mused in thought, letting out a chuckle and he shook his head. They had something so unique and beautiful built on commitment and genuine respect for each other. How could he ever allow himself to think the rest of their lives together would be anything less than perfect? They were going to have a family.

Maybe their so-called “honeymoon phase” would be eternal. Were it up to them, it sure would.

"Nah..." Shiro smiled, borrowing a bit of sunshine from outside and leaning up to steal a coffee-flavoured kiss from Keith. "I’m sorry. All good, babe."

What did some woman in a magazine know about two stars that were always meant to burn out together?

**Author's Note:**

> Leftover sales will open later today (30/09/2019) and will be available [right here.](https://sheithfamilyzine.bigcartel.com/)


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